


A Summer Swift

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, It doesn't end happy, M/M, the realistic coffee shop au no one wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24832240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ben Kenobi is 29 and works in a coffee shop. Qui Jinn is a famous author getting away from the city to inspire his muse. Cue fate. Cue the realistic coffee shop AU that I was literally asked NOT to do. Too bad.Tip your gd barista!
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 27
Kudos: 81
Collections: Anonymous





	A Summer Swift

**Author's Note:**

> I got nothing. I wrote this with my own two hands. I'm...I got nothing.

_"There's something to be said_  
 _For the arrogance which lies_  
 _In knowing I was desired,_  
 _For a single fleeting moment;_  
 _A summer swift as a heartbeat_  
 _And just as loud."_  
\- B. Kenobi

* * *

He gets to work early. Earlier than he needs to be, but he likes the quiet, and the peace of opening the cafe with time to spare for his own indulgence. There’s dust, and stale coffee in the air as he unstacks the chairs from where they rest, overturned upon tables still damp from being wiped down the night before. The old wooden floor croaks out a greeting in a dry, sleepy voice. It no longer shines with varnish, but stretches out in indifferent shades of brown worn soft, and smooth by decades of traffic. Ben stretches, too, allowing a yawn to break across his face as he runs a cloth over the condiment stand, the counters, and the white backsplash behind the sink. The hushed murmur of electricity conferring with mechanics colours the room as he flicks on the groupheads, the grinders, the press, the pastry case, the brew station, the air conditioning. Melida-Daan Coffeehouse is waking up.

He counts down the minutes, pouring espresso into hot water, adding cream, and revelling in how it luxuriates in his cup, watching as it curls itself into the bitter heart of the shot, and coaxes it into domesticated shades of cream more suited to the hour than the hard blacks of an uncivil drip coffee. At half past, he places his drink just inside the entrance to the back room, and unlocks the doors.

Sometimes, there are people waiting. Sometimes, it’s he who waits, content to read the paper, and on his worst days, do the crossword before a customer has a half-hearted go at it with a pen. There’s one man who comes in explicitly to complete the puzzles in every single copy put out on the floor, and Ben takes no small delight in denying him this gluttony when he can. When he cares.

Today, he has time to sip at his drink, and shuffle through Spotify before the first customer comes it. He plays music he knows - music he can sing to, and he hums along, breaking into song as he turns away from the till to fill a mug or pull a shot. He listens to the lyrics, letting them occupy his mind elsewhere while his shoulders hunch, and his palms force espresso grinds level beneath the press of a tamper.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, and Ben is startled into the present by the man on the other side of the espresso machine.

“Oh,” he says. “Thanks. Would you like any room in your Americano?”

“No, thanks,” the man replies. His voice lilts softly, as though sweetened with honey. “Do you sing professionally anywhere?”

Ben laughs. “Only in my shower,” he replies. He holds the shot close over the steaming cup, and the espresso slides serenely in, the crema resting upon the surface. “Your Americano,” he says. “Thank you.”

The man nods, smiling and lifting his drink in acknowledgement. “You should,” he says, and is gone.

* * *

He’s back the next day, and the next, and the next. Ben remembers his order now: Medium Americano, honey, no room.

* * *

“We missed you yesterday,” the man says, as Ben passes off his Americano.

“Oh, it was my day off,” he replies, easily.

“Ah,” he says. “How was it?”

Ben shrugs, his smile real but only as deep as required by thirty seconds of conversation. “I don’t really remember,” he says. “It’s over, and I’m looking forward to the next.”

“Any plans?”

“More of the same - sleeping to forget the rest of the week.” He speaks lightly, allowing the cynicism of his words to colour the flippant tone, and blunt expression, hardly thoughtful or profound enough to be taken at all seriously. But there’s truth in them, and he knows it.

The man laughs, and Ben grins. There’s something sharp and exciting in provoking genuine delight, and his eyes catch on well-practiced crows feet, the leap of his throat’s apple, and the glimpse of teeth behind well kept whiskers.

“Fair enough,” he says, and he drops a five dollar tip in the jar. “Do you work here full time?”

“Yep,” Ben says.

“Are you in school?”

“No, but thank you for assuming so,” Ben replies. His attention catches on another regular crossing the street, and he draws two large drips, topping them with milk before the woman has even entered the store. “I’m old,” he tells the man. “Well done and graduated.”

“What from?”

He nods at her, passing her coffees across the counter. She presses her lips in a chagrined smile, but when she speaks, it’s only to acknowledge the person on the other end of her phone call. She fishes out exact change, turning away before Ben can whisper his thanks, or offer her a receipt, so he drops the spare slip into the trash, and slides the coins into the till.

When he turns back to the bar, the man is still there, lounging against the counter, and perusing the paper. “Sorry, you said something?” he asks.

The man looks up at him, indulgent, and in no apparent hurry. He smiles at Ben’s confusion. “What did you graduate from?”

“Oh, English,” Ben laments. “A profoundly horrible choice, in retrospect, but I felt very clever at the time.”

“I’m an English major,” the man replies.

“I’m so sorry,” says Ben. “It’s not a tragedy I’d ever wish on someone else.”

“I minored in Creative Writing, too,” the man says, a smirk firmly affixed as he willingly furnishes Ben with ammunition.

“Have you sought professional help for this condition?” Ben asks. “It sounds chronic.”

“I’m afraid it is,” he says. Ben offers the barest huff of amusement, a brow rising in an arc of knowing irony. The man straightens, tucking one of the papers under his arm, and setting his cup down. He reaches a hand out, and Ben takes it in his own. “Quirin Jones,” he says.

That’s a name Ben already knows.

“No, you’re not,” he replies.

Quirin - if that is his real name - chuckles, throwing his head back in easy delight. “It’s an uncommon name,” he asserts. “I’m fairly sure I’ve not gotten it confused with another.”

“It is uncommon,” Ben agrees. “Which is why you can’t fool me.”

Quirin just holds his gaze, grin fixed, and eyes glittering with sparks of victory as Ben’s suspicions are razed in effulgent realization.

“You’re Quirin Jones,” he says. “I - I’ve read all your books. Is that weird to say?”

“It’d be weird if you knew me, and you hadn’t,” Quirin assures him.

But Ben is not content to leave it there. His hands flutter over the filter handles, fingers flexing and twisting at the dry rag hanging from the steam wand. He’s torn between being eager, being grateful, and a desire to really, truly impress upon this man just how wondrous a discovery his work has been to Ben.

“ _Ian Duke is a Lucky Man_ got me through uni,” he splutters. Half formed thoughts, private asides, and unsound segues leap and tumble over each other to be the first past his lips. “And _The Living Green_ was basically the thing that - I mean, it’s not at all - I suppose it is a little derivative, but only in the most flattering terms, I promise - but it inspired me to write.”

“Ah, so you’ve succumbed to chronic illness, too, I see,” says Quirin.

Ben is abruptly lost for words, and can only grin stupidly as Quirin unites them in confirmation of their shared lunacy.

“I suppose it’s contagious,” he agrees. He watches as Quirin raises his Americano to his mouth, drinking contentedly in the aftermath of Ben’s disquiet. “Oh, shit,” he repines. “I can’t believe I made you pay for your Americano.”

“Well worth the price, if you’d tell me your name,” Quirin says.

“It’s Ben,” Ben declares, eager and open. “Ben Kenobi.”

“Call me Qui.”

* * *

More often than not, Qui comes in alone. He carries a satchel, and he sits at a table near enough to the bar that Ben can hear his pen scratching out longhand notes in his soft, leather notebook, and he can hear Ben sing. Occasionally, when there’s a particularly frustrating order being put through, Ben turns his back to his coworker at the till and pulls a face at Qui he knows better than to show anyone else.

“A cappuccino, no foam?” comes Erin Bant’s querulous inquiry.

“Yes,” the customer confirms.

“I’m sorry ma’am - do you mean a latte with no foam?”

“No, a cappuccino.”

“Without -” Bant stammers, then starts again. “Cappuccinos are mostly foam, but I could do you a latte that’s not, because the milk -”

“I know a latte is with milk. I want a cappuccino.”

Bant’s hand hovers over the white paper cup, already covered in blemishes from previous attempts.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I...I’m not sure how to help you.”

Ben feels his face contort in agony, the earliness of his waking, and the approach of his shift’s end wearing away the thin edge of patience he’s tried so desperately to cultivate. He can hear Qui chuckle, and he knows he’s been caught. His jaw relaxes, and the gentle curve of a smile smooths away his distress.

“It’s alright, ma’am,” he calls, stepping to the till, and reassuring Bant with a quick squeeze of her elbow. “I’ve got you. Just ring her up a cappuccino, please.”

Bant exhales in relief, catastrophe narrowly avoided. The woman is quick to compliment Ben as he hands her over a latte, and her happy exit paves the way for Ben’s own.

He dips low in passing Qui’s table to mutter a brief, and teasing chastisement.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble if you keep laughing at my suffering,” he says.

Qui tilts his head, turning his ear to Ben’s mouth, just slightly.

“Stop making faces at your poor customers, and I shan’t be compelled to laugh.”

“I’m _coping_ ,” Ben insists. The last word in his grasp, he shrugs his backpack higher onto his shoulder, and reaches for the door only to be stayed by Qui’s hand across his forearm.

“Finished your shift?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Any plans?”

“Well,” Ben says, pulling indulgently on the vowel. “I was going home to sleep.”

“Stay,” Qui counters. He kicks out the seat across from him, and shifts his papers to make room. “Talk to me for a bit. I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Ben hesitates, glancing at the till in time to see Bant look away. He sighs, and relents, dropping into the offered seat.

“I get coffee for free,” he says. “I work here, you know.”

* * *

They sit there until close, Bant moving discreetly behind Qui to lock the door, and very studiously not looking askance at Ben. He feels guilty, and excuses himself to help her, running the cleaning sequence for the bar, and emptying the heavy compost bins.

“Do you know him?” she whispers as he’s stuffing newspaper into the base of a bucket.

He looks over his shoulder at where Qui still sits, packing his things away carefully into his bag.

“Yeah,” he says. “Kind of. He’s a writer.”

“Oh!” Bant exclaims, as it all comes together for her. “Is he giving you notes on your book?”

“I wish,” Ben mutters, but when Bant’s expression falls in sympathetic dismay, he pushes the bin into her arms, nudging her back to easy complacency with a grin. “I’m offering him notes. Tips for success. Secrets of the trade. That sort of thing. As you know, I have lots of experience.”

She snatches the bin from him, giggling at his flip show of arrogance.

“You don’t think a professional would want my advice?” he presses in feigned insult and outrage.

“One day, Ben,” she says, shaking her head. “And when I’m proved right, and you’re really, truly a famous writer, who’ll be laughing then?”

“Me,” he declares. “I’ll be a famous writer, and I’ll never think of you again.”

She glances back at the door.

“You don’t have to help me,” she says. “I think your friend is waiting.”

Ben follows her gaze.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think you’re right.”

* * *

  
He walks him home in the hemlines of twilight, the sun not yet set, but drooping in weariness of the day.

“Do you live nearby?” he asks, and Qui’s gentle chuckle answers for him.

“No, not at all,” he says. “I’m only visiting. Out here to finish a book, on the advice of my editor. Or, rather, her orders. I was having some difficulty meeting deadlines back in New York.”

“Oh,” Ben replies. “Is it helping?”

Qui gives him a queer sort of look, halfway between knowledge and hope and glinting just in the corner of his eye.

“I think so,” he says.

They fall quiet as they turn away from the bustle of traffic into the hush of quiet neighborhood avenues. Ben can hear the rubber soles of his shoes scrape across the rough concrete of the sidewalk. His sweater, tied at his waist brushes against his legs with each stride. The metal closure of Qui’s satchel thumps against the leather, and Ben is deeply aware of his silence, and Qui’s proximity. The world has closed in around them, but for all the privacy of empty streets, he feels the scrutiny of his company more acutely.

He walks to and from work for the peace that movement brings him. His course is neither short, nor long, but somewhere in between that allows him time to sift through his thoughts, and order the contents of a mind ruffled by sleep or work. But this time, the length seems interminable, and when they reach his door, Qui is still with him, and he is no less anxious of his presence.

He hesitates on his doorstep, keys leaving urgent impressions in his palm.

“Do you want to come in?” he asks.

Qui smiles, crooked with conceit. “I’d better not,” he replies, and Ben nods, open-mouthed. This after all. And his stomach still twists in disappointment, his heart stutters with humiliation. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Qui vows.

Ben goes through his door, and doesn’t look back, the heat in his cheeks due chastisement for foolish thoughts.

* * *

He spends a week covering his misstep with cavalier indifference. He doesn’t write coy notes on his cup, he keeps his eyes on his work. Qui pays for his drink, and has to remind him of the honey. He leaves through the back to avoid the possibility that Qui won’t reach for his arm again.

But one day, he’s waiting.

“Thought you might try to sneak out,” he teases. He’s leaning against the brick with a coffee in one hand, a book in the other, and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry?” Ben asks, more startled by the sun on his brow, and the fall of his hair than his appearance. He pulls his headphones from where they’d settled over his ears, shielding him, and providing a welcome oasis where sound and music might ease the fatigue of hours of forced greetings, taxing conversation, and unwelcome thought.

Qui gestures to Ben’s bag as evidence of his flight.

“You’re avoiding me,” he suggests.

Ben stammers, but is too shamed to deny it. “I’m sorry. It’s just - I thought...I didn’t want to presume,” he explains.

Qui shakes his head. “Not at all,” he says. “Can I walk you home?”

It’s better this time. Qui talks, and Ben listens. He tells him about New York, and the book he is writing. He elaborates on the trials of deadlines, and waxes on about the virtues of Talia, his patient and indulgent editor. He remarks on the birdsong overheard, and the blossoms in carefully cultivated gardens. He laments the lack of space in the city, and compliments the journey from the coffee shop to Ben’s home, and when Ben steps up to get the door, Qui reaches for his arm once more.

“I think I gave you the wrong impression last time,” he says. “I wasn’t offended by your offer. I had a meeting.”

“Oh,” says Ben, dumbly and too afraid to hope.

Qui traces a path in soft cotton from his wrist to his palm, and presses his fingers to weave with Ben’s. “I’d be more than happy to take anything you’re willing to give,” he says.

“Okay,” Ben says, and though he’s always prided himself on wit and words, he finds that both have fled, and left him at a loss.

Qui rises to join him on the step, and Ben lifts his chin to keep his eyes on Qui’s own. The door is at his back, the glass cool and firm. It presses the fabric of his shirt against the rivulets of sweat that run between his shoulder blades, drawn out by the warmth of the sun, and Qui’s body so near his own.

He reads intent in Qui’s gaze, and answers it by closing his eyes in blind submission to desire. His pulse leaps to beat out its elation in his throat as the fleeting heat of breath heralds the petition of lips against his own. He opens to Qui who mouths at him like a starving man sat down to a feast.

And all at once it’s as though there is not enough of himself to give. He is both too small, and too large to be consumed, so he presses his body close, he runs his hands across Qui’s chest, down his stomach, around his back, and through his hair. Qui staggers against him, clutching him tightly at the hip, and digging his fingers into the fabric of his jeans as though he might press them together as flowers in a book, making these separate planes of their bodies into one single, whole. His tongue is cool, and Qui’s mouth is hot, tasting bitterly of coffee as he traces the ridges of his palate, and courses over the enthusiastic contortions of his own tongue. Their teeth clamour against each other, and Ben smiles, laughs, breathes, as he pulls back, and opens his eyes. Qui is so close that he can nearly see right through him.

“Do you want to come inside?” he murmurs.

“Of course,” Qui says.

* * *

Qui does not rush. Qui is unashamed. He toes off his shoes, and carries his bag to Ben’s room as anxiously directed while Ben excuses himself to have a shower.

He brushes his teeth, and combs his hair, wet and pliant to his vanity. He has a length of floss wound about his fingers before he thinks himself too silly, and too cowardly to be indulged, and treads the carpet back to his room on silent feet.

Qui waits on Ben’s bed with one arm behind his head, and gloriously bare, open to Ben’s coy admiration. He’s beautiful and impossible, and Ben chokes, his throat dry, his body having forgotten the necessities of life in the timelessness of this miracle. His hand fists in the towel at his waist, and Qui frowns, reaching out.

“You okay?” he asks.

Ben nods.

“Come lie down,” Qui says.

Ben steps forward, and the towel falls away as Qui draws him down alongside him. The sheets lie crumpled at the base of the mattress, the duvet spilling in downy drifts over the floor. Late afternoon sunlight breaks through the window, thick lines of illumination breaking against Qui’s back where he is turned from them, his face to Ben and haloed by the light. Ben cannot look away.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Qui whispers.

Ben is startled into laughter for he’d thought the same. “The feeling is mutual,” he sighs, and pulls Qui down for a kiss.

 _This,_ Ben thinks, and thinks no further than that, as Qui runs his teeth across his chest, his tongue around nipple, wet kisses trailing from his diaphragm to his navel, and him lying tame and vulnerable beneath the shadow of Qui’s chest, and the force of his hands against his hips.

He gasps as Qui takes the length of him into his mouth, his hands urging his legs wider, his nose drifting over sensitive flesh, and nuzzling deep into the coarse hair at his base. Ben lifts his hips, begging to be devoured, and Qui pulls back.

“Please,” he begs. He can feel Qui smile around him, humming in laughter, the vibration travelling from his chest deep into Ben’s core, torturous and profound. His hands clutch at the sheets, fingers frantic for a hold. “God.”

Qui lifts his head, releasing Ben, his lips tight around the head of his cock, his tongue tasting him in a long, meticulous caress. He takes Ben’s hand in his, holding him down, and tempering his reflexive convulsions of need. Ben can scarcely breath as Qui satisfies his lust with patience and precision. He slows as he feels Ben nearing the break, and quickens his pace when he feels the grip in his own relax. It is all Ben can do to focus on the moment, to delay his own release, and when he feels Qui’s finger at his entrance, he is frantic to slip free of his mouth and tongue and breath to turn on his stomach to splay himself desperately to his touch.

“Fuck me,” he urges. “Fuck me, fuck me.”

Qui spits, and slides one finger inside, groaning as the muscle clenches around him. He works Ben’s ass, pumping him fast, adding another finger, and spilling lubricant over his back until it runs down his crack and coats his hand, his fingers, until it makes Ben’s skin glisten and catch in the sunlight like something fae and forbidden.

Over his shoulder, he can see Qui’s face creased in concentration, his cock in his hand drawing himself to his full length.

Ben folds an arm beneath his head, turning his face into the pillow.

There is a brief pause as Qui adjusts, and brings his cock to bear, and then a small eternity of strange and blissful pressure, before he gives way, and Qui is inside him, heavy, and thick, and hard.

“Touch yourself,” Qui murmurs, and Ben takes himself into his fist pumping in time to Qui’s strokes.

He thinks idly that it is strange how cotton sheets can be so rough as his chest chafes against their folds with each zealous thrust, but this fleeting whim is soon forgot in the ecstasy of release, and he and Qui come together, slick with sweat, and breathing hard. They lie face to face, lust slaked and content now to lie in marvelous contemplation of the other.

The fine lines of joy branch out from Qui’s eyes, blue and deep with thoughts that Ben cannot yet read. His skin is imperfect, freckled and marked, and scarred from little wounds, and summer suns from years before. Ben traces the crooked lines of his nose with his forefinger, and Qui is fascinated by his fascination.

“I don’t think you realise how close to perfection you are,” he observes.

Ben grins. “In fairness, I try really, really hard.”

* * *

They spend many days like this. Ben draped in bed sheets, admitting some degree of modesty, and Qui variously adorned upon his bed. Sometimes they fuck, but sometimes they are content to sit, or lie together just touching the secret places only lovers know. The nape, the lobe, the ankle. Inside the wrist, across the hip, the cleft where the collarbone is fused.

He reads copy as quickly as Qui types it out, leaning over his shoulder, his mouth at his ear whispering compliments, or leaving tempting kisses at the apex of his pinna. Qui’s hand leaves reams of messy, distracted scrawl all over Ben’s room, spilling occasionally into his kitchen and den, pinned beneath empty mugs, or marking significant pages in novels they’ve both read.

Once, Qui comments on the photos which plaster the wall of his room, and Ben offers him any that he may like.

“Are they all yours?” he asks.

Ben nods. “Yeah,” he says, his speculative gaze much more critical than that of Qui’s. “But I’m not too fussed about it. It’s all film, which I know is a cliche, but I appreciate there’s no editing to do after. I have one shot, and it is what it is. It’s cathartic without the pressure of perfection.”

“They’re good,” Qui says. “Could I take that one?”

He points to one of a gardener and a bush, a ladder his only escape from the green. Ben shrugs.

“Sure,” he says,removing the thumbtacks, and wiping his fingerprints from the gloss.

“And that one, too,” Qui says. He smirks like he’s pushing his luck, but Ben has given him more than a few photos, so there is no hesitation as he plucks another from its place on the wall. A girl in the sun. Beneath it, in a tidy hand, a line of poetry:

_A summer swift as a heartbeat, and just as loud._

Qui takes the prints, reading the caption out, mouthing the words and revelling in their taste.

“That’s you,” he declares, and Ben raises a brow. “I can hear you in it. And you mentioned you write.” He’s careful to keep the edges of the photos aligned, and folds them carefully between the pages of a hard-backed notebook.

Ben ducks his head, hiding his mouth’s delight behind a hand, happy to find yet another piece of sacred ground they share. “I do,” he agrees.

“Anything I might know?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Ben laughs.

“Ah,” Qui replies. “All erotica, then?”

“And fanfiction,” Ben confirms.

They sip their coffee with smirks afixed, competing for the greater share of mutual contentment.

“No,” Ben concedes, setting his mug back to the low bookshelf beside his bed, and rummaging over the floor for clothes. “It’s just none of it particularly good.”

Qui watches him with patience of one accustomed to puzzles, and trusting of their own apprehension.

“Anything you’d let me read?”

Ben hands him the loose pages of his longest, and most beloved manuscript, daring the temptation of fate, and the ruin of his heart in the application of this man’s judgement.

* * *

It’s August, the days running long, and heavy when Qui returns the book. The pages are dog-eared, and the bundle is wrapped in a string that hadn’t been there when Ben first surrendered it.

“I carried it with me,” Qui says, as Ben examines the new creases and folds bent into his perfect work. “Have you submitted this to anyone?”

“A few places,” Ben accedes. “One publisher hated it so much they hated me personally for being alive to write it. Thanks for returning it.”

He smirks, shrugging off the creeping numbness of chagrin as Qui regards him curiously. Ben slips the pages into his own backpack, and locks the door to the cafe, as Qui waits. When he starts for home, he’s only mildly surprised that Qui falls into step with him, then reasons that of course, the quality of one’s work has no bearing on the quality of one’s lust (only, he thinks it unlikely that any love could survive the loss of respect that the revelation of terrible art might provoke).

They’re just beneath the reach of trees, and silence when Qui reaches to stay his course with a hand to his wrist, turning him so he is forced to regard his censure directly, face to face.

“I think you ought to submit it again,” Qui says.

“I have,” Ben smirks. “They didn’t want it.”

“But that’s just one opinion,” Qui counters. “There are lots of other publishers out there.”

“I know that,” Ben spits, his frustration churning in his gut, and screaming through his lungs, scalding him, hot and wet as steam. “I’m not an idiot,” he says. “I have tried. I have submitted it, and submitted it. But it’s not what anyone wants.”

“I want it,” Qui argues. “And every author faces rejection. You just have to keep plugging away at it, keep trying. Don’t take no for an answer. Don’t give up. Or would you rather stay a barista at a coffeehouse forever?”

Ben chokes, and sets off again, his steps swift, the cool hand of an ocean breeze whisking away his upset before it can fully form, and betray him.

“Ben!” Qui calls after him, jogging to catch up. “Ben, I’ve read a lot of books in my time. Yours is very good.”

“Good,” Ben agrees, his heart breaking in his smile. “But not good enough. Just better than average.”

“It deserves to be published,” Qui insists. “It’s just bad luck you’ve been missed.”

Ben snorts. He bites his lip, and gathers himself.

“I’m glad you liked it, Qui,” he says. “But that’s just one person’s opinion.”

Qui looks at him, and keeps looking until Ben can’t bear the weight of it, and bows his head. He is spent with the hopelessness he feels, with the wounds that Qui found so easily, with the shame of having hoped that Qui would like his work, and the guilt in finding that he does. He sighs, hoping some of that emotion might be swept from him in its release, but comfort comes from Qui instead. He slides his hand, warm and dry, into Ben’s palm, and walks him home.

* * *

Later, when it’s dark, and things are still and close between them, Ben whispers to Qui, “I hate the coffee shop.”

Qui wraps an arm tight about Ben’s waist, and presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

“It’s not a bad job,” Ben says. “But that’s even worse. It scares me. Complacency comes so easily when life is just bearable, and I’m afraid that one day I’ll be too old, and too comfortable to even imagine escape. I won’t want it. I’ll be there forever, and I’ll just be...resigned.”

Qui sighs, his breath rustling through Ben’s hair at his nape, and they fall asleep.

* * *

“I’m going back to New York in a week.”

He hears the declaration from across the counter, spoken to Bant as she hands Qui some change. He knew this, but it’s still a shock to hear it. _So soon_ , he thinks, Qui’s announcement making it real for all that it’s public, and said to strangers. But Qui smiles at him like it’s nothing when he hands him his drink, their exchange familiar but not weighted with the regret of imminent parting that Ben feels in his gut.

He sits with Qui after his shift, wandering around from topic to topic hoping that one will naturally lead to some confession or other.

“This really is a beautiful country,” Quirin says, eventually. “I’m going to miss Vancouver.”

Ben pauses, not wanting to speak over Qui’s farewell, but he adds nothing to the silence that falls after the full stop of his proclamation.

Ben inhales sharply, and turns his face to watch the traffic passing by. Old store fronts, vintage shops, and mountains looming high like a storm on the horizon provide a suitably romantic environment for lovers, and authors.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Vancouver will miss you, too.”

Qui’s eyes crinkle, and his moustache twitches upwards. He drops a hand to Ben’s knee beneath the little table, and gives him an encouraging squeeze. It’s not enough…

“Still,” Ben says. “You must be glad to be going home.”

Qui agrees again, easy, and unsuspecting. “My daughter starts NYU this fall,” he says. “I haven’t spent much time with her since her mother moved them to Texas about eight years ago. It’ll be good to reconnect.”

“Oh,” Ben says, and it’s just like the end of June. He hadn’t realized - he hadn’t thought - about the life before and after. But summer is hardly more than a handful of days, and every second he spends regretting them the fewer he has to cherish. So he slings his bag over his shoulder, and says to Qui, “Walk me home.”

* * *

Nothing really changes after Qui goes home. Ben goes to work early. He wipes the tables, and sets out the chairs. He brews the coffee, and balances the pastries in practiced towers. He still takes cream in his Americano, and says _hi hello how are you_ to the customers. Some of them say it back. His book still sits in his backpack. He submits it again. It’s rejected again. He puts it in his closet.

Nothing really changes, until one day, Bant hands him a package that’s been addressed to the store.

He unwraps it, and discovers a book. And a letter. Hardly a letter. Just a scrap of paper covered in a familiar scrawl.

 _Dear Ben,_ it reads. _I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve forgotten your address (alas! The perils of approaching senility), but hopefully this finds you safe and well at the coffeehouse. Many thanks for a wonderful summer, for inspiring my work, and for being a most charming host throughout the course of my visit to your beautiful city. I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labor as much as I enjoyed yours. Best wishes for the future. - Qui._

The book lies heavy in his hand, and Ben turns back the stiff, hard cover, the pages leaping free and falling neatly open to the dedication.

_For Ben, and that swift, loud summer._

Ben stares, and stares, reading the words until they blur and contort. There must be meaning, there must be something, but he can’t help feeling like the dedication speaks of nothing but loss, and the letter says nothing at all.

He tucks them both into his bag, and goes back to work. He waits for summer to come, and watches as it goes with nothing else to be said for Quirin Jones. He pours espresso, he makes faces, he takes pictures, and writes stories, and thinks that there has to be something more. Something that he missed. Someone waiting. Someone wanting.

Three more summers pass before Ben understands that Qui is never coming back to Melida-Daan.


End file.
